


Night Terrors

by PinkAfroPuffs



Series: Tales of the Champion [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Darkspawn, F/M, Mentions of ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 07:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16868836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAfroPuffs/pseuds/PinkAfroPuffs
Summary: Coffee's hot.





	Night Terrors

_“How could you say that? It’s your fault he died!”_

She woke with a start, sweat greasing her palms. Hands groping around for something, anything, any _one_ , she was surprised to touch something warm. Familiar. The hum of lyrium moved beneath her fingers; the smell of a burning hearth, the crackling of burning wood-

Her nose pressed to his back, hopefully not too much to stir him; he had his own nightmares to worry about, his own fears that were far greater than hers, and she was glad that Fenris was finally sleeping through the night. He didn’t need to feel her dwelling on past regrets. On past woes.

Hawke rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, the back of her hand pressed to the pillow beside her head. Absently, her fingers brushed against her nose and the inside of her cheekbones; noticing the absence of warpaint, she recalled that Fenris had been the one to remind her this time. That she could take it off.

Her bonnet had rolled off while she slept- or tried to. It felt silly to go looking for it now that she was awake. Maybe it would be best to punish herself by dealing with the tangles tomorrow morning.

Stiffly, she forced herself to sit up, careful not to wake him, and then slid out of their bed before waddling to the dresser. In a flash, her boots were on her feet- of the softer sort, not well suited for battle, but warm all the same- and she’d thrown on some clothing that covered her arms before grabbing one of her creatively-named swords (was _this_ one The Mages Were Right? Or did she grab The Oppressive Arm of the Chantry?) and skittered down the stairs.

The hilt of her blade was cold. She wondered if she should store the chest a little closer to the fire, to risk them being harmed, or the box burned, just because she wouldn’t wear her gloves. Stubborn and frustrated, she went around the back of the estate to find one of the dummies she’d set up, pressing a hand against its wobbly frame before giving it a good whack with her fist. It still seemed alright, so she took on her warrior stance and swung.

She should be practicing her magic. The swings were muffled by straw and the howling of wind, but her voice would carry. She was still at that stage, after all. Saying her spells to remind her brain what she was doing.

“Blade’s a bit dull,” she murmured to herself. “Must be the Chantry one.” She waved it around, jabbing a bit more than she swung, focusing hard on the unmoving target.

_“You should have left me here, sister. I would rather be in a Circle than...than be like this.”_

Sweat beaded her brow. She’d cut her tongue by biting down too hard, muffling her own war cries.

Distract. Be distracted. Hit _harder_.

_“Da’len, you can’t...you can’t stuff away your magic, or beat away your problems. You must face them.”_

She cursed the memory of her father. He’d never faced his own problems. He’d run away from the Circle, run away from Kirkwall, and even from issues in his own marriage. “Stupid.” _She_ had to deal with those stupid problems. With stupid Carver. Stupid Bethany. Stupid mother.

Darkspawn. Darkspawn had been everywhere, right? She could blame them, but not for long. Darkspawn had killed Carver straight away, were killing Bethany as she spoke. Because of her foolishness.

“I should have been the one in front of mother.” Who was saying that? Sticky, and wet, her hands felt so warm to the touch, like an unsettling but warm bath.

….unsettling.

The wind gave the harsh wound away. She’d grabbed the blade wrong, ignored the hilt and shoved it into the straw entirely, cutting the inside of her hands to all hell. Bloody handprints littered its inanimate body, the Oppressive Arm of the Chantry sticking out of it in a position so stuck that if she pulled, it only wobbled.

She sat on the ground. Cold. Silent.

_Like mother._

Talia knew the tears would come; the sting had already been biting the inside of her eyes, stabbing at the undersides of her lashes, her cheeks, turning their smooth, ochre complexion to an angry and blotchy red. She held her breath. Maker, she wanted to yell. To scream at the top of her lungs, to curse-

But she whimpered. The permission to continue from there was too much, so she held her breath again, cheeks puffing out like a child.

_I wish I had never been born._

If she died, they might all have lived. Why had the Maker decided that her life meant more than all of theirs? That she should stay here, alone?

“I should have been the Grey Warden,” she decided aloud. It came out like a gasp, or hot air, or something that wasn’t quite _relief_ but it was _something_ and _Andraste,_ she would take what she could get.

The two moons of Thedas pitied her from above. The wind stopped howling.

* * *

 

“You were out quite late last night.”

She wasn’t all that surprised about him knowing. When she looked up at him from the sofa, untangling a blanket from the cushions, she could see the bags under his own eyes. A ring of red only noticeable from a close distance caught her own eye; with a soft sigh and an even softer smile, she asked, “You were awake?”

He was gathering some dishes from the table while she put on the coffee and tended the fire, his back to her. “I...awoke when I noticed you were no longer beside me.”

She let out a short, pitying laugh despite herself. “What a pair we are. A mess.”

“I suppose we are,” he agreed, “though less than when we were in Kirkwall.”

A swallow. “You are.”

He met her eyes from over the couch, one set of green into another. “This is the first time in weeks you’ve been up, Hawke. I’d say that’s an improvement.”

“And you?” She half-teased, truly a touch concerned. “Your...markings...do they still...hurt?” As soon as she asked it, she felt she shouldn’t have. The memory of Isabela asking him before surfaced in her mind, and she shook her head.

Before she could retract it he sat down beside her and set a couple of empty mugs on the table in front of them. His shoulder pressed against hers as she pulled the blanket over them both, the warmth of his skin comforting her senses. “Less. When you are here.”

“I’m glad I can comfort someone,” the words escaped her before she gave them permission, but she rolled with it, reaching under the blanket to fill both of the cups. “Did a bang up job for myself.”

Fenris didn’t speak for a little while. She wondered if he was trying to find the proper words for her, though she wasn’t sure she wanted them. Instead, she continued, “I’ve got yours ready. Do you want anything in it today?”

“No,” he said simply, and he picked up the cup before she could hand it to him.

“Nothing in it?”

“Why would it need to be improved upon?”

Talia gave him a wry smile. “You _can_ enjoy coffee, you know. I put loads of sugar in mine.”

He grunted, though some part of the sound was almost amused. “Coffee isn’t meant to be enjoyed. It’s meant to be consumed.”

“You can enjoy _food_. Don’t you enjoy food from time to time?”

“Often,” he agreed, “but coffee is a drink.”

She threw one of her hands up, exasperated. “Fenris!”

His chuckle dissipated her frustration. “You walked right into that one.” He seemed smugly pleased at this, smiling as he raised the cup to his lips.

She got off of the couch to grab the sugar- and maybe a little cream, while she was at it- to add to her own. “Why drink it if you don’t even enjoy it,” she half grumbled. She loved the man but sometimes he confused her to no end.

“Because it serves its purpose.” When he looked at her, cup in hand, she could see the bags under his eyes more clearly, beneath the stain of red from his own troubles the night before. “The day wastes whether I work or no, but if I must be awake, I will do it with full senses.”

“Black coffee,” she scoffed. “It suits you, though. Strong and a little bitter.”

“By that logic it should be your favorite as well.”

“Oh, funny, funny!” She laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You should do stand up comedy. I hear the Hanged Man is looking to hire.”

“I’ll be happy to go for it when I start liking the smell of piss and vomit.”

“You forgot sour ale.”

He chuckled, his cheek brushing against hers. “I did, didn’t I?” After a bout of silence, he said, “You are not alone, Hawke. I...cannot give you the forgiveness you want, but. I can give what I can.”

She sighed a little, her fingers gently tangling in his hair. “I know. I...just think this would be a lot easier if it wasn’t just us.”

He gave her a kind of Look that was somewhere between incredulous and amused. “You would want Isabela in our home again? A blood mage swinging from chandeliers, a dwarf organizing a gambling ring in our living room?”

“Honestly, all of those things sound tempting,” she admitted. “But for now...for now I think you’re right. Maybe it’s better that it’s just us.” Half-teasing, she leaned on him a bit heavier. “I don’t think anyone else would put up with your thrashing at night.”

The admission didn’t seem to bother him. “Nor yours.”

“Truly,” she rubbed her arms.

“I do think your coping habits could use some work, though.” The tap of the mug against the wooden table showed his cup to be empty already. Hawke almost laughed at that. Her dessert-y drink was only half full. “That training dummy has certainly seen better days. You _should_ get a new one.”

“Maybe we should make some.” Cozy and finally comfortable, she felt her eyes lowering. Coffee be damned, she hadn’t slept a wink the night before, and Fenris felt a lot like home.

“Mm,” he agreed, and the shadows of past lives receded into the abyss they’d come from, for a few priceless hours.

**Author's Note:**

> Last night I started replaying DA2 because I missed Fenris and the opening scene really got me in the angst fuel tank. I'll be running for days.


End file.
